


The Fine Print

by RurouniHime



Category: Merlin (BBC) RPF
Genre: Angst, Community: help_haiti, Jealousy, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-16
Updated: 2010-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This, this is the warning he should have heeded about costars and complications. But he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Print

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dysonrules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysonrules/gifts).



> Written for dysonrules as part of the livejournal community help_haiti effort. I do not know Colin Morgan or Bradley James, and as far as I know, this never happened. I do not make money off of this fic.

**The Fine Print**

 

Bradley's fingers dig into Colin's arms the split second before he wheels and lets go, shoving Colin through the doorway. Colin staggers, his hand still a sphere of fire. Fuck, it hurts. Bradley slams the door shut. Turns. Shoves Colin's shoulder out and back.

"What the _fuck_ was that, Morgan?"

Colin rights himself, expecting— But Bradley remains at the door. His mouth is a furious moue; Colin can see his teeth.

Colin shakes out his fist. His knuckles burn; his fingers feel like one big pulsing welt. Bradley's gaze darts after his hand and something dark and sudden lights in his eyes. Colin turns away, unable to keep the grimace off his face.

"Fuck."

"Hurt your hand, did you?" Bradley kicks the door hard and turns on him again. "Well, you deserve it."

"What the hell do you care?"

Bradley's mouth drops open, incredulous. He points back toward the closed door and the hallway he just dragged Colin out of. "You punched him. Out of _nowhere_, Colin!"

_Because he was all over you_. Colin changes his mind. "I had my reasons."

"Yeah, I'm sure the media will love that," Bradley snaps, right over his words.

"God, Bradley! There was no media!"

Bradley scowls. "You're lucky there wasn't. What is the matter with you?"

Colin isn't sure. He's always liked Santiago. Their scenes are easy going and enjoyable to be a part of. He likes Heroes, thinks the first season was innovative. And now Johnny's going to kill him, or sack him, for punching a costar. Possibly both. And Colin can't find it in himself to care.

"What's the matter? Well. Hell, Bradley, we did fourteen takes on a one-minute exchange yesterday, that's what's the matter!"

Bradley goes a bit pink and looks away. And it's not his fault, but Colin has wanted to blame him all week because he can't look elsewhere. He can't. He hasn't slept straight through a night for a month, and it feels like he's feeding off the air surrounding Bradley but he can't get enough of it, and this was not what he'd expected or intended.

This, this is the warning he should have heeded about costars and complications. But he didn't. God, for some reason, when the moment came, he just opened his fingers and let it all go.

"I don't understand you," Bradley snaps. "I _don't understand you_, Colin. Not just your bloody accent, I don't get you! You'll charm the shit out of everyone you see, and then you'll punch a close friend in the face just because you can!"

Bradley is fishing. Baiting, more like, and the sad thing is that Colin knows he will go for it, leap after the lure like a fish after its first catch, green around the gills, completely at the mercy of his own nature.

He wants to tell Bradley that it's because it _is_ Santiago. Because they are close, because he likes Santiago, he still fucking _likes_ the bastard. And he hates him, too, it's so deep in his innards. It's a burn in the back of his throat, and maybe if he'd been prepared— He wants to tell Bradley that he wanted to have been ready.

But he doesn't. Bradley stares at him, waiting, and his nostrils flare. Colin can't think of how to convey it all.

"I'm going," Bradley states. He nods. His mouth twists and he nods again. "Fuck it. I'm going."

"You're not." Because he can't think of anything else. Because he can't just let it all go again.

Bradley lunges right into his space. Colin has never seen him so angry. "You do _not_ get to stake some kind of claim over me when you're the one who said none of it mattered!"

His throat cinches tight, lets Bradley turn and reach the door, before it opens enough. _"It does matter."_ His heart thumps, too hard, like it's trying to jog itself loose. Colin swallows. "Bradley, it matters."

Bradley nods, too slowly for Colin's peace of mind. It's ominous. "Great," he mutters. "Just great."

"Bradley."

Bradley's hand tangles in his hair; his face flushes, and it sends Colin back to that couch and Bradley pushed back against it, tasting of liquor and malt vinegar, and Colin sucks in a breath at how much is slipping out of his grasp. All because the only way he could find to tighten his grip was to make a fist.

Bradley jerks his hand free and jabs Colin in the chest. "You don't decide anything for me, Morgan."

"I know that." He does. He doesn't want to decide for Bradley, but he wants their decisions to match, right now he wants it so much it physically hurts, right in the center of his chest. He's felt punched through ever since that night, emotions gouged into the very fibers of his body, raw and aching, because it got away from him and he fell. He fell without realising. Or he fell long ago, but the details don't matter anymore. Not if Bradley gets out that door without understanding.

But Colin's possibly been too much of an ass for that to happen anymore.

"You said it." Bradley throws it in his face. "_You_ made up the terms, and I didn't even ask you for any."

What exactly is it he did that night? Colin can feel his expression falling out of his control. He stares at Bradley, trying to breathe. Moreover, what did he do to Bradley? They got drunk and Colin made a mistake, and did something, and now he can't sit on that couch anymore and Bradley no longer comes over just to watch a movie or share a sandwich. So Colin made some rules. So what? It was what he needed to do, because he's always been too serious, too unforgiving of his own foul-ups. Professionalism won out that night, and they may be young, but Colin would have to be an idiot not to see that Bradley is a professional. He's going places, and Colin's planning on going places.

Only Colin's just now seeing the true extent of what he's done.

He hadn't _needed_ this, god, not then. He hadn't needed to lose his grip on himself like that, he should never have been drunk around Bradley, he didn't feel the same way once he'd sobered, and that was the truth, but who on this earth felt the same way drunk as they did sober? He hadn't wanted to think about it then, so he didn't.

Except his body thought he needed to think it over and has been doing a slapdash job of it while he's been trying to fight it all off.

"I may have—" Colin forces himself not to look away. "Spoken too quickly."

Bradley's eyes move away from his with a resigned swing that makes Colin's throat close again. But then they are back, looking too deeply. "Don't joke."

"I'm not joking!" It comes out as more of a hiss than a statement, each sound enunciating itself across his tongue. Bradley looks at him; something flickers in his eyes and Colin realises he's just been baited. He sighs and lets the victory go to Bradley: he drops his eyes.

"Are you with him?" Colin swallows around the name. "Santiago."

For a long moment, Bradley does not answer. Then, "No."

The relief is as heavy as a cascade of stones. Colin breathes through it, wanting to say more, _if you were, I wouldn't make waves, if you and he—_ but he can't. All he can feel is the sublime flood of euphoria through each blood vessel. He would make waves. He'd try not to, but in the end, he knows he wouldn't be able to help himself.

"But neither are you and I," Bradley finishes stiffly. Colin's breath stutters. He looks up and finds Bradley staring at him. "You and me, we're not together. Your choice, remember? That means you don't get to pull shit like that, Morgan."

Colin nods. He might just come out of this with nothing, the same way he went in, only the pain will be greater, the hole larger. It's too hard to speak normally under that yoke.

Bradley glares at him as if he expects something. Colin doesn't know how to dodge all the landmines he suddenly knows are in front of him. He can't see them; any step will trigger the first, and they are so close together that it will only take one.

"Fuck, Colin!" Bradley spits out. He throws his arms up, radiating that energy that stirs the other pain in Colin's chest, the one that first coaxed him out of his shell and into Bradley's arms, inebriated but needing that pulse of life, absolutely needing it. "What do you want from me?"

Bradley exudes his anger like a source of power; his cheeks flush, his eyes brighten and narrow at the same moment, his shoulders jerk back— he becomes even taller somehow, and it hits every single node inside Colin like an electrical current. How did he fight this before, how in the world? Why did he want to? Bradley is every fresh breath he's ever drawn, every jolt and spike he's ever felt, stinging like ice water over his limbs, burning his throat, reminding him that this is real and he is alive.

"This, I want this—" He needs this, god, he— Colin lunges and grabs Bradley's jacket, pulls himself against Bradley and tongues his way into Bradley's mouth, and it's like he's gone quiet inside, all at once. In place of all that cacophony of mistakes and regrets, serene silence.

Bradley's hands tense around his and he yanks Colin away. Shoves him back. For a second, Bradley's fist curls, and then he manhandles Colin into the wall and ravages his mouth, pressing with his chest until Colin is on his toes, forcing Colin's hands against the wall and locking their fingers. Bradley pushes them apart and heaves air into his lungs. Colin does the same, pulls his fingers free and clutches Bradley's face. Resumes the kiss, nearly devouring. He wants… wants to be devoured.

But Bradley shoves him back firmly again with a hand in the middle of his chest.

"If you want this," he rasps, breathing hard. "If you want this… then you have to give me some concessions, too."

"Name them." Because Colin already knows, he feels like he and Bradley are finally speaking the same language in the same accent. Bradley plunges a hand down and yanks at Colin's fly, forcing buttons free. He reaches in and Colin's head knocks against the wall at the first stroke. He pushes his hips into Bradley's hand, into Bradley's hips, and they both groan.

"The fine print, Colin," Bradley finally manages. He lips Colin's mouth, slides his other hand down the back of Colin's trousers and palms him forward until they are flush. "You. And me. Just you and me."

Colin bites Bradley's upper lip and cedes into a kiss, a knot of tongues and teeth and breath. Bradley hisses, "Oh god, _Colin_—"

"Me and you," Colin breathes. He grips Bradley's hips, the curves of his thighs, and tracks along Bradley's jaw, down his throat. The taste is familiar and perfect, and he'll be damned if he fucks this up again and allows anyone else to know this taste. "Official."

Bradley cradles his face abruptly, forcing a halt. Colin blinks at blown pupils, at worry and uncertainty, but also at a desperation that rivals what he feels inside. Bradley needs to be heard, to be understood. And Colin gets it this time.

"Yeah, official," Bradley whispers. "Can you… Can you give me that?"

Now, he can give Bradley anything. Colin clasps his hands around Bradley's and feels the shiver skating down Bradley's arms. "I have," he whispers back. "It's yours, it's all yours."

Bradley's eyes close. His body sags against Colin's, against the wall, heat weaving through their joined hands. The corners of his mouth tilt up, a tiny, fragile smile. "Colin."

"Sign at the bottom," Colin murmurs. Bradley's smile blooms like a flower until Colin kisses it away.

~fin~


End file.
